


Lessons Learned

by Nonia



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Durin Family, Family, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-17
Updated: 2013-02-17
Packaged: 2017-11-29 15:35:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/688581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nonia/pseuds/Nonia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thorin remembers finding Frerin in Azanulbizar and hopes his sister-sons never feel the same pain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lessons Learned

**Author's Note:**

> In response to the Hobbit Kink-meme: 
> 
> Thorin finding Frerin's body after the battle of Azanulbizar.

Many years after the battle of Azanulbizar, when the pain dulled from searing to aching but always, always there, his nephews would ask for war stories and Thorin would tell them histories of their ancestors. 

When they would ask for stories of his own battles, so young and naïve and unable to comprehend the horror of war and the agony that brings about what little glory there might be, Thorin would be spare with the details and would often force them to bed early on those nights and spend the rest of it brooding, staring and reliving every painful moment. 

They learn not to ask for those stories, they never learn why in those times. 

It was when they were slightly older, too old to sit on their mother’s knee but not too old to ask for stories that they were told of their Uncle Frerin by Dis as she put in Fili’s first braids and commented how much like his younger uncle’s his fledging beard looked. 

Obsessed now with the thought of a family member they did not know about, they would ask for details and details and Dis would answer as best she could until the pain became too great and she would send them to bed early and spend the rest of the night brooding and staring. 

They also learn not to ask of those details, though they never knew why in those times as well. 

They finally begin to glean the ugly truth when their official lessons with Balin begin. For after learning of ancient histories, and if they learned their lessons well, he would reward them with a few minutes of story telling on the subject of their choice. Of course, their first choice was always Thorin. 

He knew what they were doing, and he knew that stories of Thorin as boy, would graduate to asking for stories of Thorin as prince, to stories of Thorin and the mountain, and Thorin and the dragon, all of which were stories they had already heard from their uncle and mother. 

No, Balin knew what they were leading to, the one story that neither Dis nor Thorin would willingly delve into the details of, no matter how important they deemed the history and how carefully they made sure the heirs of Durin’s line grew with the traditions of old. 

He knew they would eventually lead him to the story of Azanulbizar. And he also knew, that was one story, that was not his to tell to the heirs of the line of Durin. 

And so, on the day following Durin’s Day, Balin sought out Thorin and asked him to walk with him, and Thorin did and listened silently as Balin told him his thoughts on the matter. Thorin’s reaction had been swift and quick and refusal, and Balin, used to this, simply nodded his head, knowing Thorin would go back and think and would either stay stubborn or quietly take the counsel and act upon it. 

If he had insisted, Balin knew, Thorin would not even think of his suggestion of telling the boys the story of Azanulbizar in his own words. 

And so the days went by, and Balin was convinced that Thorin had decided against his counsel when the Dwarf approached him and told him the boys would not be taking their lesson with Balin that day, but with Thorin. Nodding his approval, Balin watched the glee on the boys’ faces at the prospect of more time with their uncle as Thorin led them deep into the mountain. 

Thorin took the boys deep into the mountain, to the heart of the mountains where their dead lie in shelves awaiting in Mahal’s halls for the rebuilding of Middle Earth after the Final Battle. It was not an unknown place to them, for they learned the lesson of the halls of Mahal too early in life when they claimed the boys’ father. 

However, a side chamber, hewn deep into the rock to the side, was unknown to them, and that was where he took them.  
Eyes wide with wonder, Thorin let them take in the sight as he tried to imagine how they would see it. For he helped build this chamber, saw it appear in the stone, and had carved some of the pillars himself. 

The chamber was deep and dark, narrow and silent. There were not shelves housing the dead in this chamber. The pillars were carved in the manner of those in Erebor and every few paces, where was a bench, where one might sit. 

The torches keeping light cast moving shadows into the every crevice and Thorin instinctively stepped closer to his nephews as if to protect them from the unknown dark. 

He waited, silently, while they took in the simple room. The walls decorated with runes upon runes upon runes. The farthest wall contained the emblem of Durin upon its middle and it was surrounded by runes as well and Thorin was not yet brave enough to approach, and so he watched his sister-sons and waited for them to realise what the runes meant, for they were at an age where they dreamt of battle and glory, and he needed them to realise that songs of adventure and glorious victories were not what histories were made of. 

He watched as Kili stepped on one of the benches to look closer at the runes while Fili was drawn to Durin’s crest at the back. It was Kili who exclaimed softly, “Names… these are… names…and family lines…” glancing towards his uncle, Thorin acknowledged the information with a nod. 

Fili meanwhile had reached the crest and found the date underneath, TA2799. “There is only one date.” he said glancing back to another nod from Thorin. 

They were silent awhile and then a sharp intake of breath from Fili, “There are the names of those lost…in…in Azanulbizar.”

Kili’s awed, “So many…” was what spurred Thorin into finally speaking, “We lost half of our people that day.” he then approached the crest and stood by Fili, “Half our family.”

Kili now stood on his other side and stared at the names of the line of Durin that had been claimed by the battle. 

Thror. Thrain. Frerin. 

He could see the question in Kili’s eyes and the warning look Fili gave his brother and decided this was not a place for them to argue, “Thror’s runes, lay here with the crest of Durin, and beneath, his bent crown to remind us never to forgive.” he reverently touched his grandfather’s crown, “Thrain’s runes, lay here with the crest of Durin, and beneath, his battered shield, for he did not take it with him in his maddened run, to remind us never to forget.”

Thorin’s hand trembled as he touched Frerin’s. He needed to teach his sister-sons this lesson. He needed them to realise the pain of war. He needed them to understand and never put themselves in the same position. 

“Frerin’s runes, lay here, and beneath, lays his older brother’s sword, Thorin’s sword, which failed to protect him.”

Both whirled around to stare at him in shock and Thorin softly began to tell them of Frerin and the battle of Azanulbizar. 

*****

 

Thorin stalked out of his tent in a rage, he had been arguing with his younger brother for the better part of the day. Trying to appeal to him to stay with the camps and help Dis but Frerin would not be swayed.  
He insisted on going to battle with them. 

Thorin did not want to admit, but this battle had weighted heavily upon him. Thror’s eye was ever fixed upon Erebor even in the face of orcs and goblins and the mines of Moria they would attempt to reclaim and his focus was not with them. 

Thrain had allowed Frerin to join them, citing the honour of the line of Durin, for how could they appeal to their kin to help and send their sons and fathers to battle of their own were not at the forefront. 

Dis had tried to appeal to both her brothers on that day, urging them not to be cross with each other on the eve of their march towards the battle. Neither would listen, true to their titles and lineage and Dis despaired. They would not even be in the same tent together. 

And so they had marched towards the mines, Dis a tearful memory behind them. Thror at the front of the battle with his son on his right and his two grandsons to his left. A stony silence between them that all attributed to the tension of the coming battle. 

The eve leading to the dawn of the battle itself was fraught with battle plans and strategies and it was Frerin who finally sought Thorin out. 

Thorin, always too proud, was relieved. He did not want to go into battle at odds with his brother, and had accepted Frerin’s peace offering of an ale. 

They both sat in front of the fire, shoulder to shoulder and Frerin confessed to Thorin, “I feel an ill vibe, brother. This is not a battle Mahal smiles upon.”

Thorin turned to Frerin with a raised eyebrow, Frerin had often made light of Thorin’s superstitions, citing them old wives’ tales and refused to put stock in anything he could not see or prove for himself. “What’s this? Logical Frerin speaking of vibes?” he tried to make light of the situation. 

Thorin’s heart clenched at Frerin’s look, for Frerin turned to him and clutched his cloak and said, “Thorin, do not jest or mock. Not this night. I feel this might be the last night we sit next to each other by a fire like this!”

Wrapping an arm around Frerin’s shoulder Thorin spoke with a confidence he did not truly believe, for his mind would forever be clouded by the image of his gold-struck grandfather, “Aye, we shall not sit by a fire like this, but we shall sit next to each other in the fire of Moria, and the fires of Erebor and we shall sing songs and drink ale and remember this battle.”

Frerin had not answered, simply bumping his tankard against Thorin’s and staring into the fire. Thorin had not the heart to break his reverie, and so they did not speak and simply enjoyed sitting next to each other. 

When the fire began to die to embers and they prepared to rest before the dawn of the battle, Thorin clutched his brother’s shoulder and said, “Stay by me, always, in battle. Do not let me lose sight of you.”

Normally, Frerin would rebel and refute the need for protection, but this night, Frerin had simply nodded with a soft, “Yes, brother. We fight side by side.” before pulling up his furs. 

The dawn found them facing Moria and hoards of orcs and goblins. Thorin’s words to Frerin before the charge had been, “I shall meet you in the halls.” and he would forever regret it, for his brother did not end up in the halls of the Dwarves, but the halls of the Dwarf-maker. 

Thorin remembered the charge, his brother’s yell as loud as his own as they ran. He remembered the splatter of black orcish blood, he remembered the vile taste of it as it flew into his mouth. He remembered his brother leaping into a charge meant for himself and yelling for Thorin to be more careful. And then he remembered being knocked down and standing up and his brother was not there. 

He should have realised all was not well when the next goblin attack upon him was by his brother’s own blade, now wielded by the grotesque grip of an orc. He should had realised that he no longer saw the shine of gold at the edge of his vision as he fought, for Frerin’s colour was not a common one amongst their people. 

Thorin would feel the worry, and the rage bubble in him, and always, always at the back of his mind he looked for Frerin’s golden locks and red armour, fashioned in the manner of their grandfather’s. He did not realise the shield a goblin had blocked him with was his brother’s, red by craft and not by blood. 

Then a flash of colour would bring his attention and there was Azog, and his grandfather had fallen and Thorin looked on in horror as Azog took his grandfather’s head, carved his own name upon it and thrown in towards himself. 

He should have realised as he tracked the path of the head as it landed by his foot that it had passed that of his own brother’s. He should have realised that his war cry as he attacked Azog was not echoed by Frerin as it should have. 

Thorin did not remember much after. He would remember the attack on Azog and but he did not remember the final charge. He would remember coming to himself as he watched the ravens fly off with messages of the war to kith and kin. 

Stood upon an outcrop he watched the remnants of the people, his people now, he noted dully, looked for their loved ones. He turned to speak to Frerin and found emptiness. 

Denial and agony were very much the same. For one fuelled the other and Thorin could remember hours and hours of searching in the tents of the wounded, refusing to look for his brother amongst the dead. Neither Balin, nor his oldest friend, Dwalin would convince him to stop his search, or rest or start looking among the dead. 

It was becoming night, though it did not really matter, for the day was a dark-winter day and on that day the sun did not shine and Thorin, numb and weary, found himself wandering aimlessly amongst the ruins of their people and that was when he saw the red armour and golden hair. 

His dash towards the red armour would land him on his knees, and stumbling up over bodies and weaponry. Thorin knelt by Frerin, tears already springing into his eyes, voice piercing the sombre deadness of the night, shaking his head in denial. For his brother was rent from shoulder to middle, and his limbs were riddled with arrows. Foot crushed and arm bent, Thorin could not handle the sight and retched into the ground, coughing and gasping through his tears and denials. 

It was when he lent forehead against his brother’s, apologies streaming from his lips for not protecting him, that Thorin’s horror grew. For it was faint, but he could feel the slight of breaths come from Frerin. Reeling up in shock, Thorin had roared for a healer and Dwalin would later tell him that never had they heard any roar that loud or long. 

Thorin stayed by Frerin, and when the healers had arrived, it was the look on their faces that broke him truly. For it was obvious that Frerin was beyond anyone’s skill to repair, and that it was not a matter of if he would die, but when. 

They informed Thorin gently, that attempting to move Frerin would probably free his spirit to Mahal’s halls, and Thorin recognised the mercy for what it was. They were offering to do the deed for him instead of simply wait for the life to squeeze itself out of Frerin. And when Thorin refused, Dwalin had volunteered to carry Frerin for him and again Thorin refused, brokenly commanding, “Leave me.”

Nodding their assent, they had left their broken prince, now King and Thorin had yelled his anger to the skies and his tears to the earth as he gripped his own blade, touched his forehead to Frerin’s one last time, and said, “I am sorry little brother, I did not protect you.” 

Thorin would never forget the feeling of his blade plunging into Frerin’s heart, and shaking, hesitating, praying for this one small mercy, he lent down again and was relieved to feel the small irregular puffs of breath had stopped. 

He stayed by Frerin, gripping the pommel of his sword, leaning heavily against it, railing against the gods, and weeping, until in the grey hours he was collected by Dwalin and gently reminded that he was now Thorin II Oakenshield. 

There would be a lifetime to grieve after they leave this accursed place. 

******

Thorin finished his tale and did not realise his hands were shaking until they were gripped by Fili’s. He could hear Kili softly weeping next to him and he did not stop the boy. For it was a grim story, and a grimmer reminder of what could await them in the future, and it was a lesson they needed to learn from him, and hope not to learn for themselves. 

Staring into the crest of Durin, Thorin silently asked the gods not to take these two from him as well.


End file.
